Fourteen
by Andy Mills
Summary: A story about a covert army even more secretive then the SAS or Delta Force.


The hot sun sank slowly into the horizon, far away behind the tree line. The sky changed from bright orange to a deep, velvety black, and soon after, thousands of tiny stars began appearing all over the night's sky. Sergeant Chris Henderson admired the beautiful view as he sat on his Bergen. The Philippines was by far the most amazing country he had visited. Nearby, Chris could just about make out the rest of his men in the darkness. They too were sitting on their bergens, admiring the view, and enjoying their last minutes of peace before the task ahead. John and Paddy were talking in low voices amongst themselves, and Taz was creaming up his face with camouflage paint.  
The team were on a deniable operation in the Philippines, as part of the Subversive Action Wing of the 22ND Special Air Service. Chris had been in the SAS for just over eight years now. He'd fought all over the world, including in Afghanistan, Kosovo, Northern Ireland, and also in some deniable operations in China, Russia, Argentina and Ukraine. Chris's current operation was to rescue a woman called Natasha Farum, who had been taken hostage by the Filipino Communist rebels while on holiday in Davao City, on the South of the islands. He couldn't understand why the government was bothering to rescue just one woman, since hostages were usually returned soon enough anyway. Unfortunately, Tony Blair, in an attempt to copy Maggie Thatcher, had recently issued a strong statement to the press, promising that the Government would not give way to terrorists, and would help foreign governments in fighting these rebels. He had issued it not long after the hostages had been released in Columbia after several months in the jungle.  
Chris was brought back to reality by Paddy tapping him on the shoulder. He turned round to see Paddy carrying the SATCOM in his left hand.  
"Time for a sitrep Chris," he said, in his strong Irish accent.  
"Alright," Chris replied, taking the SATCOM and setting it up. Paddy switched on his maglite and shone it on the SATCOM so that Chris could see. Chris typed in the codes by memory and picked up the receiver.  
"Hello zero, hello zero, this is Bravo Three-Six-Four, do you read me, over." The reply came almost immediately, almost as though the Rupert in charge was next to him.  
"Hello Bravo Three-Six-Four, this is Zero, sitrep over."  
"Local time is 1145. We are geared up and awaiting the order to move sir."  
"Sergeant Henderson, your orders have changed, I repeat, your orders have changed. You are now to wait at your current position until another patrol RV with you. At first light, both patrols must advance onto objective Echo. You will give covering fire only while the other patrol reclaim the hostage, and you must only advance on the base if the situation requires it. Repeat, you will give only covering fire, and you will only move in on the base if the situation requires it. Your confirmation code for the other patrol is Banana Split.  
"OK sir, message received. Stand by for sitrep at around 0330, over." Chris put the receiver down and disassembled the SATCOM. His confusion must have shown because Taz came over to enquire about the sitrep.  
"What's happening mate?" he asked.  
"Orders have changed," replied Chris, "Looks like we're waiting for another patrol to RV with us and then we're letting them take the hostage. We're only giving cover on this one. Confirmation is Banana Split. Pass it on to the others." Taz went around and repeated Chris's words to John and Paddy.  
The next few hours were the worst in any mission in Chris's opinion. They were forced to sit and wait until the other patrol RV'd with them. Chris sat on the damp floor and leaned up against his Bergen. He stared up at the starry sky, thinking of what he was missing at home. The night before he had left for this job, his wife, Jenny, had a massive argument with him. Chris frowned as he thought about how much his relationship with her had worsened since he'd joined the SAS. In the eight years he'd been in the regiment, probably less than half of that had been spent at home with his family. That was the worst thing about being in the SAS. They don't give a fuck about your family, and they don't expect you to give a fuck either. He felt anger rising in him as he thought about this. He was angry with the regiment, for not caring. He was angry with Jenny for not understanding that this was his job and that it was the only thing he was good at. Most of all though, he felt angry with himself for allowing his life to get so fucked up.  
He didn't know exactly when he fell asleep, but the next thing Chris knew; Taz was shaking him awake. Taz cupped his ear and signalled for Chris to listen carefully. It took him a few seconds to pick up the sound amongst the cacophony of crickets and other nocturnal jungle animals. Finally, he picked out a faint rustling in the distance. It sounded like carefully placed footsteps, and was obviously being made by someone well trained in jungle combat. He made a grab for his .203 and silently cradled it in his arms, his finger taking up first pressure on the trigger, and his thumb on the safety catch. After a few more intense minutes of listening, a loud whisper broke the silence. Chris quickly raised his .203 and aimed it in the direction of the sound. The whisper came again:  
"Banana!" Chris quickly recovered from his state of tension and replied with:  
"Split. Come out with your weapon held by the barrel in your left hand." There was no reply, but Chris saw six shadows emerging from the darkness nearby. They all had .203s grasped in their left hands, and they moved almost silently. They moved towards Chris, dumped their bergens on the floor and sat down around Chris and Taz. Paddy and John came over as well.  
"Who the fuck are you guys?" asked Chris, wondering why their orders had changed.  
"Rescue Party," replied an abrasive cockney voice to Chris's right somewhere.  
"No shit mate," chipped in Taz with his Australian accent.  
"So why the fuck were our orders changed then?" asked Chris.  
"Can't say, sorry. We just got the order to drop in and get this Natasha bird. We got told you guys had done all the recces and stuff, and were gonna give some covering fire," said the cockney voice again.  
"Oh yeah," came a Geordie accent from somewhere in front of Chris, "We got you guys some new comms kit so you can talk to us when we go in." Chris heard some rustling as the Geordie rummaged through his Bergen for the kit. He passed out four radios with earpieces and throat mikes attached. Chris set about putting his on in the dark, which took quite some time, considering he had to pass the wires through his DPM smock in the pitch black.  
"Right, you gonna brief us, or what?" asked the cockney,  
"OK," Chris began, "There's usually two sentries on patrol. They walk alone; one comes along roughly every ten minutes. They're carrying longs, but they don't look too well trained. In the compound, there's one guy at each end of the building. They also carry longs, but from what we saw, they spend most of their time sitting down and smoking the local herb. There's another man at a small sandbag bunker with a machinegun, facing roughly northeast. About five hundre-"  
"Why the fuck have we been called in then?" asked the cockney voice, cutting off Chris in mid-speech.  
"As I was about to say," replied Chris, "About five hundred metres to the south is a massive rebel stronghold. Green Slime reckons that there's at least a hundred and fifty rebels based there. It looks like it's a massive training camp. If those guys come along we've got one huge gang fuck to deal with. If we get out in time though, these guys wont be able to get us. They wont have NVGs and if we cover the ground in time they wont be able to organise themselves for a search before we call in the heli."  
"Right," sparked up cockney again, "First of all, we take out the sentries. Silent attack, so we don't alert the others earlier then we 'ave to. Then you lot (he pointed to Chris and Taz) can take out the MG position. At the same time, we'll go round back and attack either side of the building, and take out the guards. We bang and clear the building, take the hostage and run like Forrest Gump." There was a murmur or agreement from the other soldiers. Paddy chipped in:  
"What do we do about the rebels if they come after us?" Cockney chirped up again:  
"You lot can stay back slightly and hold them up. Chuck in some claymores, set up some traps, do whatever you gotta do, just make sure you give us time to make the RV. If the shit hits the fan and you don't make the RV, call us in on the radios and well arrange an ERV as soon as we can get back in." Once again there was a murmur of agreement. Chris pulled back the sleeve on his DPM smock and pressed the backlight button on his watch. The time read 0319. Damn, he thought, still eleven minutes till the last sitrep. Cockney lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The end glowed brightly, and Chris saw his face in the gloom. He had a shaved head and a few days of growth on his face. His eyes were bright blue and glowed with the reflection of the cigarette in his mouth. There were deep lines in his face that could only have come from years of service in the armed forces, and on his right cheek there was a large dimple scar that was probably made by a bullet. He took a last drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out in his fingers. Then, instead of just throwing the butt on the floor, he pulled a black waste bag from his Bergen (the sort usually used for shitting in), and dropped it in there. He twisted the top and placed it back in the Bergen.  
Finally, at 0330, Paddy passed the SATCOM over to Chris, and he set it up. Once again, the Rupert at the other end responded almost immediately to his call.  
"Hello Zero, hello Zero, this is Bravo Three-Six-Four do you read me, over?" he said.  
"Hello Bravo Three-Six-Four, this is Zero, awaiting sitrep over."  
"We have RV'd with the patrol and are standing by for further orders, over."  
"OK, we've received authorisation from Downing Street and the Filipino Government. You can go ahead and reclaim the hostage."  
"OK got that. Stand by for sitrep at 0430, over." He put down the receiver and disassembled the SATCOM. Paddy packed it away in his Bergen.  
"Alright," said Chris to the men sitting around him. We've got clearance, gear up and get ready to move out." He did the straps up on his Bergen and tightened his belt kit. He then grabbed his .203 and checked that the magazine was on tight and that the trigger selector was working well. He moved it quietly from safe, to single shot, to three round burst and checked to see that there was no grit that would cause it to jam up. Around him, the others were doing the same things. He stood up, brushed down his clothes and hoisted his Bergen onto his back. When everyone was ready, Chris instructed them to put on their NVGs and spread out in patrol formation.  
Slowly, they crept through the dense foliage, treading as carefully as they could. Chris focused on placing the heel of his foot down lightly first, to test the ground. If no sound was made, he applied more pressure and pressed the rest of his foot down. They could barely be heard, even at close quarters, in the cacophony of sound around them. When they were barely a hundred and fifty metres away from the encampment, Chris signalled for everyone to stop and get down. The adrenalin was starting to pump now. He took a few very deep, very quiet breaths to oxygenate his brain and try and suppress the sound of the blood pumping in his ears. Then, opening his mouth to block out any internal noise, he listened carefully. Chris's plan was to wait until he heard one of the sentries, and then signal for cockney to follow the sentry and take him out. After three or four minutes, he heard the careless trampling footsteps of a sentry, seemingly rampaging through the jungle without actually listening for intruders. Excellent, thought Chris, this is too easy. He turned around to signal for cockney to come and do the dirty work, but found that cockney was already running silently through the jungle. As the sentry walked past them, not even twenty metres ahead, cockney grabbed his mouth, and with his other hand sliced his throat. The sentry was dead instantly. All Chris heard was a slight grunt of surprise as cockney pounced onto him and attacked. Cockney then dragged the sentry's body back into the jungle and dumped it just out of sight in the pitch black. He then hid in the shadows and waited, his knife in his hand ready.  
Things became tense again as they all waited for the next sentry to appear. Chris was sweating, but he dared not move his hand to wipe it away. Saliva was building up in his open mouth. He just let it dribble out as he listened for the sentry. Finally, after what seemed like an age, the footsteps could be heard again. Chris saw cockney's muscles tense and his legs twitch as he prepared to attack again. The sentry walked past, apparently unaware of the ten soldiers waiting to greet him in the darkness. Cockney's attack was so swift Chris almost missed it. He jumped out and clapped his hand over the sentry's mouth, slicing his throat with the other hand. Who the fuck are these guys, thought Chris. MI6 perhaps? Whoever they were, they were fucking well trained. He had never seen someone being knifed that quickly or quietly.  
Cockney signalled for his patrol to follow him and they crept off into the distance. Chris moved forwards, and Taz, Paddy and John followed him, .203s raised at the ready. They stopped about ten metres away from the tree line. Ahead of them, they could see the dim lights emitting from the camp. They waited again for the order to move in. Chris was brought out of an almost trance like state of concentration by cockney's voice on the new comms kit.  
"In position."  
"OK. Stand By, Stand By, Go, Go, Go!" He replied. At this, he moved forwards towards the machinegun nest and took aim. He could make out the shocked face of the rebel, lit up by the green haze of his NVGs. He fired a quick three round burst into the rebel's chest. The rebel screamed and fell backwards, his chest ripped open by the grouped shots of Chris's .203. A fraction of a second later, he heard the familiar .203 shots from the other patrol, as they took out the guards at either end of the main building. Chris moved towards the building. Behind him he could hear the hurried footsteps of Taz, and slightly fainter, the footsteps of Paddy and John. There was a loud bang as one of the other patrol members tossed in a flash bang. Chris watched them run into the building. He heard a woman's scream and several confused yells from what Chris presumed were more rebels, followed by a series of successive single shots. Then, there was silence. Geordie and cockney emerged a few seconds later, guiding Natasha out of the building. They were followed by the rest of the patrol, who had their .203s raised, ready for more rebels to join the party. Cockney produced a Sig Sæur from a holster on his belt kit and handed it to her. Shit, thought Chris, bad idea. Generally, if you give a hostage some kind of firearm to protect themselves with, they end up doing more damage then good in a gang fuck. Yet, he was surprised to see Natasha check the magazine, reload the weapon and pull back the topslide. Whoever she was, she'd had professional training in handling small arms. As Natasha, guided by the others, ran into the jungle, Chris remembered their other orders.  
"OK you lot," he said to the others, "Lay out some claymores and booby traps. We wanna slow down these fuckers as much as we can. I'll rig up the main building. You two (he pointed at Paddy and John) rig up the MG nest. Taz, help me in here." Chris went into the building and took of his Bergen. He undid the flap and pulled out several sticks of PE4. Moulding it in his hands to make it more pliable, he shaped it into a makeshift charge, which would explode outwards in a roughly circular pattern. He then rigged up a fuse with a thirty-minute timer on it. Taz did the same at the other end of the room, and concealed it in the clothes of one of the dead rebels. Chris hoisted his Bergen back onto his back and walked outside again.  
Outside, Chris and Taz placed some claymores facing outwards in the general direction of the main rebel base. They were attached to motion sensors, so as soon as one of the rebels approached, the claymores would send ball bearings and shrapnel to come and greet him. After wiring up the motion sensors, Chris stood back and admired the job.  
"Right," he said, looking around at the other three, "Looks like we're done here. Let's go make the RV so we can get the fuck out of here. I've had enough of this soddin' jungle." Chris retrieved his Bergen from the building, closed down the flaps and hoisted it onto his back. He was already looking forward to being back at the FOB with a stewy mug of tea and a chance to chat up some of the slightly formidable looking Filipino women working at the base. He kept this thought in mind as he tabbed off into the darkness of the jungle, checking every so often that the others were following.  
After ten minutes of hard tabbing, Chris began to get worried by the lack of activity from the rebel encampment that they had just attacked. Surely they had heard the noise? Surely someone must have gone out to investigate? After twenty minutes, his worries were consuming his every thought. What if the rebels had heard the commotion and were following them through the jungle, waiting for a moment to attack (at this thought, he turned his head round and scanned the area, as if expecting to see a rebel's head popping out from behind a bush). Chris decided to check their position, to see how far they were from the RV with the heli.  
"RV!" he said, as loud as he dared. He swerved off to the right and crouched down, counting the others in as they swerved and crouched with him. He pulled out his SATNAV and switched it on, keeping his hand cupped over the screen so no one else would see the light emitting from it. He pulled up his NVGs and wiped the layer of sweat from his forehead. After a few tense minutes he got a fix, and the SATNAV gave his position. Shit, he thought, still another twenty minutes of tabbing at least. He got his bearings, and switched off the SATNAV, wishing he was back in the Sergeant's mess at Hereford.  
For the next twenty or so minutes, the men tabbed on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, and each wishing they were somewhere different. When they finally did reach the clearing, he stopped about three metres from the tree line and called out:  
"Banana!" The reply was almost instant:  
"Split! Come out with your weapon held by the barrel in your left hand." The men did as they were told and walked out into the small opening in the vastness of the Filipino jungle. Chris scanned the edge of the clearing and eventually spotted the other soldiers almost opposite them, hiding in amongst the vegetation. Chris bent down low out of habit and ran towards them. He threw himself down next to cockney and laid down in silence, listening for rebel scouts. The adrenalin was pumping again as he sat and waited in silence for the heli to find them.  
The first glimmers of dawn were creeping over the tree-infested horizon, and Chris was weary from the long night. Suddenly, there was a whoosh of rushing air, followed by a deep thud. He didn't see the RPG coming towards him, but he felt the earth shudder as it slammed into a tree somewhere behind him, and he felt the wave of heat rush over him as the warhead detonated in a blaze of fire and flying shrapnel.  
"Contact!" he yelled, looking around to see if he could see the rebels. He didn't have time to locate them before a hail of bullets screamed towards their position. Around him, the others were shouting and screaming as they all got to terms with the sudden appearance of the enemy rebels. Chris closed one eye and focused on one of the muzzle flashes coming from the other side of the clearing. He took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself, which required quite an effort given the fact that there were several rebel soldiers out there hell bent on killing him. He flipped to three round burst, and squeezed the trigger. Flames erupted from the muzzle of his .203, and the butt slammed into his shoulder.  
Next to him, cockney was firing a series of rapid single shots in the direction of the enemy. His eyes were alive with excitement and he was screaming and swearing at the top of his voice.  
"Use some Willies on the bastards!" yelled Geordie, pointing to where the enemy were hiding. Chris pulled out a white phosphorous grenade from his belt kit and quickly loaded it into his .203. He flipped up the sight and took aim.  
"One! Two! Three!" yelled Geordie, and Chris squeezed the trigger. There was a loud whooshing as ten grenades made their way over to meet the Communist soldiers. There was a blinding white flash and Chris heard screams as the grenades detonated. Most of the vegetation that had once been there was now either on fire or completely obliterated by the white- hot phosphorous grenades.  
The rebels responded by sending a wave of RPG's back at them. Once again there was a whooshing sound, followed by the heavy thud of the warhead hitting the trees behind. Chris felt the same wave of heat over his head, but this time he also heard a yell of pain. He looked over. Geordie was laying on the ground screaming. His back was a bloody mess where the shrapnel from one of the RPG's had ripped it to pieces.  
"Foockin' Hell!" he yelled at the top of is voice, over and over again, his Geordie accent suddenly becoming much more pronounced. John crawled over to him, dragging his own Bergen behind him. He ripped open the top flaps and yanked out a medikit.  
"Cover me," he yelled at the others. He ripped off Geordie's DPM smock and pulled out a set of large surgical tweezers. He began slowly removing the pieces of shrapnel from Geordie's back. Meanwhile, Chris was firing in short bursts in the general direction of the enemy soldiers. He'd taken off his cumbersome NVGs and was relying on the light from the tracer bullets that were flying in both directions. By now, Geordie's back was covered with one large field dressing, and he was back on his stomach, firing rapid single shots at the enemy. Cockney was still swearing his head off as he fired white phosphorous grenades over the clearing and into the enemy's position. By now, the shock of being ambushed had worn off and Chris was focusing on getting rid of the rebels in the quickest possible way. When you're in the shit, the best thing to do isn't to worry about how you got there, but to just accept it and try and get yourself out. Chris thought about this as he changed magazine, keeping his head as low as he could to the ground. The fresh magazine clicked and he flipped off the safety.  
Suddenly, in a burst of light from one of the rebel's Kalashnikov rifles, Chris saw it's owner's face. He flipped to single shot and fired quickly. He heard a scream and assumed he'd shot whomever he had seen. Fuck this, he thought, there's no way the heli is going to land with all this fire coming down. He tapped Taz on the shoulder, who looked around and moved his head closer to Chris so he could hear properly.  
"We need to get rid of these bastards before the heli comes in," said Chris, shouting to be heard above the noise of the gunfire, "Let's go around back and dump a few grenades on them. If we put down enough fire they'll think there's more of us. Leave your Bergen here."  
"Alright," replied Taz, looking slightly sceptical of the plan, "But what if they see us coming mate?"  
"They wont. Right now all they'll be concentrating on is keeping this lot at bay." Taz nodded, checked his pouches and crawled off into the foliage behind. Chris followed and they crouched down low behind a bush. The bullets were zipping past their heads close enough to keep them alert, but not too close to cause any harm. He checked his weapon again, pulled on his NVGs and crawled off into the darkness. Taz followed him, making sure he kept just a few feet behind. It was hard trying to keep a good sense of direction in the darkness, but Chris followed the clattering sounds of the rebels' Kalashnikovs.  
Eventually the sound got closer, until Chris suspected they were no more then twenty metres from the enemy. He stopped and raised his head slightly. They were there, ahead of them and facing towards the clearing. Chris and Taz had approached them from the rear. They ducked as the others sent another barrage of white phosphorous grenades at the rebels. The heat wave passed harmlessly over Chris's head, but he heard some screams as a few of the rebels were caught in the fire line. Seconds later, a couple of the rebels popped up from the ground with RPGs. Chris took the opportunity. He flipped to single shot and fired a double tap into each of the rebels, before quickly ducking down. There was a scream from the rebels as they fell to the ground, and a confused shout from the other rebels as they tried to locate the source of the incoming fire. The others, who hadn't noticed where Chris and Taz had disappeared off to, also looked confused as they saw two rebels being shot from behind by a seemingly invisible soldier. However, they took the opportunity to let off another round of grenades from the .203s, which caused even more havoc. When the grenades detonated, Chris and Taz began shooting the rebels as they raised their heads to take aim and retaliate. Chris was firing quick double taps and then ducking back into the foliage to hide.  
By now, Chris suspected there weren't many more rebels left to take out. He changed his magazine and loaded his last one into his .203. He was just about to fire another burst at a rebel who had popped up to aim, when he heard the faint clattering of a helicopter in the distance. Shit, he thought, is that our pickup heli, or one of the rebels' ones? He looked up to see if the heli was visible yet, although he knew it would be another few minutes before it would be. Then, remembering that he was still in the middle of a gangfuck, he looked back at where he was aiming before. The rebel he had in his sights before had ducked down again, but another one popped up to his left, so he swung the muzzle of his .203 around and fired a burst into his back. The rebel screamed as three red, bloody dots appeared in his back.  
As he ducked back down into the ferns, Chris had a sudden thought. They had to move back to the rest of the patrol. If it was an enemy heli he could hear, when it flew over the rebels' position, it was likely to have a searchlight on the bottom, which would make him and Taz stick out like a bulldogs bollocks. If, on the other hand it was their pickup heli, then when it landed to pick them up, Chris and Taz would emerge into the clearing from the rebels' side. One of the other's was likely to mistake them for rebels and shoot them. Chris tapped Taz on the shoulder, and signalled for them to move. Taz nodded and followed as Chris crawled as quickly as he dared back to their side of the clearing.  
When they were finally laying back behind the little ridge next to cockney and co., Chris took a deep breath and listened for the heli. It was still there, getting louder and louder. The rebels had also heard it. They were yelling in a confused way and some were pointing to the sky. The noise grew to a roar, and the green Chinook twin rotor heli came thundering over the trees and hovered above the clearing.  
"Cover me!" yelled Cockney, throwing smoke grenades into the clearing and running across it. Geordie followed him and Chris began firing bursts in the rebels' general direction. Cockney and Geordie were placing coloured light sticks all around the perimeter of the clearing, whilst dodging the enemy fire.  
As the heli began lowering itself into the clearing, the rebels turned their fire towards it and began firing long bursts from their AKs. The rear ramp lowered and two Filipino Commandos leapt out with gympies and began firing long bursts into the rebels' position, screaming and swearing in their own language. Natasha Farum, whom Chris had completely forgotten about, leapt out and ran towards the heli, stopping occasionally to fire shots at Rebel soldiers who had evaded the hail of machinegun fire from the Filipino soldiers. She ducks and made one last run to the Chinook. Cockney and his band of unknown soldiers followed, firing bursts into the tree line as they went. Chris jumped up and followed the last of Cockney and Co., firing the last few rounds in his magazine as he went. He jumped up onto the tailgate, crouched down and counted as Taz, Paddy and John ran in after him. The Filipino soldiers followed after this and the heli lifted off of the ground. Chris could still see the occasional muzzle flash as a rebel shot at them. Cockney also saw this and moved to the tailgate, laid down on his stomach and began firing single shots like a sniper. When they were finally too high and too far away from the clearing, he stood up and ran back into the belly of the chopper. The tailgate closed and they were left in the eerie green light of the Chinook's cabin. Chris took a good look at Cockney and his patrol. Who the fuck are these guys, he thought? Cockney pulled a pack of B&H from his map pocket and lit up, taking long drags and exhaling slowly and noisily.  
"Well that was a good night on the town weren' it?" he asked grinning and looking at each of the people in the cabin.  
"Piss off Nick!" replied Natasha, also grinning. This was the first time Chris had heard her speak. She had a voice that was straight out of Oxford University. Something about her swearing and talking to a cockney hard nut seemed strange to Chris. And why the fuck were they talking to each other so personally anyway, thought Chris? There was definitely something going on here. Chris knew better then to ask, but he couldn't help asking himself these questions.  
  
It was a cold, wintry day in October. The streets of Notting Hill were packed with businessmen and women, mothers and babies, and twenty-something students, all talking animatedly either into their mobiles, or to the group of people they were with, and all desperate to get to wherever it was they were going to. Nobody seemed to notice the ragged looking bundle of clothes in the doorway of a derelict shop. Another cold gust of wind blew and Chris Henderson awoke with a start. He had been sleeping restlessly, having that dream again. Chris kept having the same dream over and over again for a while now. It would start with him dozing peacefully in his bed in his old home in Hereford. Then, he would be woken by the sound of an RPG rushing towards him. He would get up and run, but his legs never seemed to carry him as fast as he wanted to go. Bullets would be tearing up the ground behind him and eventually he would feel a sharp pain in his back and awake with a start.  
As Chris wiped his bleary eyes, he thought bitterly about his life. It had been eight months since the Philippines, and six months since he'd finally left the regiment. After the operation in the Philippines, Chris had began getting what the doctors called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, (PTSD), and what the guys in the regiment called 'an attack of the shakes'. He'd began having bad dreams. At first he dealt with it by drinking. But soon, he became addicted to the sharp taste and dreamy effects of the scotch. He was finally hauled in to see his CO when he punched one of the new lads in B squadron during a late night brawl in the Sergeants mess. Chris decided at that point that his time as a member of the SAS was coming to a close, and requested that his service be terminated the next day. After leaving, things got slightly better at home, and he began getting along a lot better with his wife Jenny, and his daughter Chelsea. Then, after just six weeks or so of life out of the army, he began getting the dreams again, and resorted to drinking Whisky to keep the images out of his head. One night, Jenny came home to find him sitting on the sofa, with a bottle of scotch in one hand and a commando knife in the other. His face was covered in cam paint and he was sharpening the knife while reciting the names of all his dead friends one after the other. Jenny packed her bags that night and went with Chelsea to stay with her mum up north. Chris couldn't keep up with paying the bills at home, so he sold their little cottage on the outskirts of Hereford and moved in with his dad again. He soon wasted the money from the house on gambling, and his dad eventually kicked him out of his flat as well. Chris had been living on the streets for three weeks now.  
He was brought back to reality by someone tapping him on the shoulder. He looked up to see a tall, smartly dressed blonde woman, tapping him on the shoulder and smiling. She knelt down, still smiling and began talking:  
"Excuse me sir. I'm a journalist for The Times, and I'm writing a column about homeless people in London and their stories. I was wondering if you'd be willing to tell me your story?" She was still smiling, flashing those brilliantly white teeth.  
"I'd rather not," he replied, his voice hoarse from not using it for so long. Blondie wasn't fazed. She merely carried on smiling and said:  
"Well if you change your mind, here's my number (she handed him a business card). You can call me anytime you want. I'll pay you of course for anything you tell me."  
"Yeah I'll tell ya something," replied Chris, now severely pissed off, "I wanna tell you to fuck off alright?" The woman looked slightly taken aback by this comment, but recovered herself very quickly.  
"Well if you change your mind, phone me please."  
"How am I supposed to phone you? I aint got a mobile and I aint got the money to use the fuckin' payphone!" spat Chris bitterly.  
"Here's twenty pounds. Is that enough?" she asked, handing him a crumpled banknote. Chris snatched the money and stuffed it greedily into his jacket pocket. Blondie stood up and walked off, her expensive high heels clicking annoyingly on the pavement. Chris waited until she was out of sight before standing up slowly, brushing himself down and ambling off to the greasy old café on the opposite side of the road. He opened the door to a smell of freshly made brew and greasy eggs and bacon. He ordered a full English and sat down to eat it by the steamy windows. He was starving, and almost choked himself as he stuffed fatty bacon and cold baked beans down his throat.  
Half an hour later, Chris was back in the shop doorway, shivering and feeling even more pissed off with himself, the regiment, and the world in general. He pulled out the business card and looked at it thoughtfully. What if he did tell his story? He could expose all of the secret operations the SAS had been involved in. He could completely fuck up the regiment's future operations, not to mention give the PM one bitch of a day. That'd get the bastards back for leaving me like this, he thought angrily. He pulled the change left over from the twenty pounds out of his pocket and walked over to the payphone nearby. He pushed in a few of the coins and dialled the number. Blondie's clear voice came through from the receiver pressed against his grimy ear.  
"Hello?" she asked enquiringly.  
"Is this the woman from The Times? The one doing a report on the homeless people in London?" he asked. She hesitated for a second before replying:  
"Yes it is. Who is this?"  
"You spoke to me this morning," replied Chris, his voice becoming clearer as he got used to using it again, "In Notting Hill. I think I told you to fuck off."  
"Ah yes," came Blondie's voice, "So you want to tell me your story then?"  
"Yeah. How much do I get for telling you?" asked Chris.  
"We'll discuss that when we meet OK? I can meet you in an hour in the café opposite where you're sleeping."  
"Alright," replied Chris, and he slammed down the phone. He grabbed the change from the little hole in the bottom and walked over to the café again. He ordered a brew and sat down by the window again, staring at the clock near the doorway.  
An hour slowly ticked by, and Chris began forming his story in his head. This was going to put him in the shit deeply, and he may even be prosecuted for breaking the Official Secrets Act, but he didn't care. He had nothing to live for anymore. His wife and kid had left him, and even his dad no longer wanted to know him. Chris ripped up the paper napkin in his hand distractedly. The door in front of him opened and Blondie walked in. She was still wearing the same business suit, high heels, and thick coat, but was looking pale in the cold weather. She looked around and, seeing Chris at the table by the window, came over and sat down.  
"Right, listen to me," said Chris.  
"How about you listen to me Chris," interjected Blondie, pulling out a thin notebook computer from her briefcase and setting it up on the table.  
"What the – How do you know my name?" asked Chris.  
"Ah, but I know a lot about you Sergeant Henderson!" she said, smiling. Before Chris could burst out another round of confused questions, she ploughed on, cutting him off: "First of all, I don't work for The Times. I work for British Intelligence." Suddenly, Chris realised who she was. It was Natasha Farum, the hostage from the Philippines. Her hair had been cut so it was just past her shoulders now, and she was looking much more in control of things now she wasn't in the middle of the jungle, but it was definitely her.  
"Hang on," said Chris, "You're that Natasha bird from the Philippines." Natasha grinned.  
"Well done Sergeant Henderson. I see you're senses are back again now you're off the Scotch. So tell me, how's life treating you now you're out of the Regiment?" She grinned again, and Chris could see where this was going.  
"If you're here to recruit me for the Firm, or Five or whatever, I aint gonna do it OK?"  
"Don't worry, I'm not recruiting for Five or the Firm," she replied.  
"So what do you want with me then?" asked Chris, clenching his fists in anger. He'd heard about this. MI5 kept tabs on all ex-SAS soldiers, and often recruited them to become Deniable Operators, or Ks for either of the Intelligence Services.  
"Ever heard of 'Fourteen'?" she asked. Of course Chris had heard of 'Fourteen'. Most of his mates in the Regiment had thought it was just a myth, but Chris had never been so sure. 'Fourteen' were supposedly a group of highly trained Special Forces soldiers, even better then the SAS. They were made up of ex-SAS and SBS soldiers, and were one of the biggest secrets British Government had. From what Chris had heard, only the Royal Family, the Director of Special Operations and the heads of the SAS and SBS knew anything about the group.  
"You're old CO recommended you to be in 'Fourteen'. According to your records (she tapped away on her laptop, skim reading whatever was on the screen), you were the best marksman in the Regiment. You came out top in selection. You led the sniper team for the Subversive Action Wing for two years. In short, you're ideal material for 'Fourteen'."  
"Are you havin' me on?" asked Chris, suspecting this might be a joke.  
"No. Look, I'm getting a group of prospective recruits to meet me at four o'clock this afternoon at Vauxhall Bridge. Here's two hundred pounds (she handed him a wad of banknotes). Get yourself some decent clothes and for god's sake have a wash. In this envelope (she then handed him a brown jiffy bag), is an ID badge for you to get past security and a letter to hand in at reception. Be there by four o'clock." Chris stuffed the jiffy bag and money into his jacket pocket and stood up. He swallowed the last mouthful of tea in the chipped mug and walked outside into the cold.  
  
It was three thirty by the time Chris had washed and changed into his new jeans, sweatshirt and boots. He ran his fingers distractedly through his messy hair, took a deep breath and walked purposefully towards the security guard at the entrance to the Vauxhall Bridge car park. He was still trying to get used to the idea of being told by a so-called 'tourist' who he had rescued from the Philippines eight months ago, that he had been selected by the government to work for an organisation he wasn't even sure existed. It seemed ludicrous, but he had nothing to lose, so he handed over his shiny new ID badge to the security guard and looked at the looming glass towers of MI6s new headquarters. The guard nodded and pointed to the glass doors nearby.  
"If you go through those doors there you'll be in reception. Do you have a letter to show why you're here as well sir?" he asked.  
"Yeah," replied Chris bluntly.  
"Well hand that into reception and they'll make sure you're seen to." Chris nodded and walked on towards the entrance. Once inside, he was greeted to a large atrium. To one side was a tall front desk, with a glass screen between the receptionist and the rest of the room. To the other side were a series of turnstiles leading to a long series of doors. Chris handed in his letter at the desk and waited patiently as a security guard patted him down and searched for hidden guns, bombs, or other forms of weaponry. He was then sent to sit down at one of the uncomfortable chairs lined up against the wall near the desk. Chris checked his new watch and saw that it was still only three forty five. Chris was twiddling his thumbs absent-mindedly when he heard a surprised shout.  
"Chris?" came a bright Australian accent. Chris looked up to see his old best mate from the regiment, Taz, standing before him. Taz had obviously also been having a rough time since he'd quite the SAS. His face was covered in several days' worth of growth, and there were dark lines etched all over his face. Nevertheless, he had a broad grin on his face as he shook Chris firmly by the hand. Taz handed in his letter at reception and stood still while the security guard frisked him. He then sat down next to Chris, still grinning in a surprised way.  
"So what are you doing here then mate?" he asked.  
"I dunno if I'm allowed to say really," replied Chris thoughtfully. Was Taz here for the same reason? If not, what would happen if he told Taz about why he was there? Would he be bollocked for giving away that kind of information?  
"Same here I think mate," replied Taz, his grin now turning into more of a concentrated stare. As the minutes ticked by to four o'clock, more and more people arrived, sometimes arriving in groups of two or three. They were all men aged between 30 and 40 years old, with creased faces and dark lines under their eyes. Some of them Chris recognised from the Regiment, but he remembered few of their names, and only one or two openly acknowledged him.  
Dead on four o'clock, Natasha walked into the reception area, wearing another smart business suit and still carrying her expensive looking leather briefcase.  
"Okay gentlemen, follow me please," she said, smiling broadly like a car salesman. She walked towards a turnstile and swiped her card across the console. The little gates swung open with a bleep and she walked hurriedly through, checking quickly behind her to see if the others were following. Chris and the others followed her through several different corridors, and down a long flight of stairs, before they came to a nondescript door, with the label '14 SOG' engraved on it and a small keypad on the wall next to it. She typed in the code on the keypad and the door opened with a bleep. Beyond the door was another corridor, with many unmarked doors leading off from either side. They carried on walking behind Natasha, none of them daring to speak. Eventually, Natasha stopped and typed in another entry code into a keypad by a door on the right. The door opened and she walked in. Chris followed, and saw at once that they were inside a large briefing room. Chairs had been laid out in rows and to the front of the room was a small stage with a podium erected in the middle. On the podium was an emblem of some kind. When Chris took a closer look, he saw a picture of the earth, with a Winged Dagger in front of it, and the words '14TH Special Operations Group' written underneath.  
Chris went and sat down next to Taz on the front row and leaned on the arm of the chair, his head now buzzing with a million different thoughts. He stared vaguely at Natasha as she set up her laptop in the podium and linked it up to a projector socket. The images from her laptop screen flickered into life and appeared on a large projector screen behind her. She was just opening her mouth to speak, when a tall Asian man hurried in.  
"Excuse me Miss Farum, these two men arrived just a few minutes after you left reception. He waved his arm in the direction of the doorway, and, to Chris and Taz's surprise, in walked Paddy and John, the other two members of their old four-man patrol from the Regiment. They spotted Taz and walked over to sit next to him. The Asian man walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.  
"Okay, if everyone could be quiet please," she said loudly. The noise in the room quickly died down.  
"Okay, first of all, congratulations. You people here today have been selected because you are the elite. That is to say you are the most skilled professionals this country, and many other countries, has to offer. You have been selected from the Special Air Service, the Special Boat Service, the Australian SAS, the American Green Berets, Delta Force, Navy SEALs, Canadian JTF-2, Bundeswehr GSG-9 and the Pathfinders. Each one of you is particularly skilled in demolitions, marksmanship, reconnaissance, MOE, or Close Quarters Combat. You have all seen military action and service all over the globe. So why are you here then?" she asked, looking around the room, "Why are you here (she pronounced each word slowly and carefully)."  
"'Cause it's either this or sign up for the dole," came John's thick Glaswegian accent. Everyone laughed, including Natasha.  
"I'll tell you why you're here," she continued, "You're here because you have been selected for entry into the British Army's 14TH Special Operations Group, or 'Fourteen' as we are more often known as in the intelligence community. If you pass the selection course, in six months time, you will become a member of the toughest, most highly trained combat unit the world has ever seen, or in this case, never seen. You will become the first line in defending the western world against terrorism. You will be fighting across the globe, confronting enemies' intent on destroying the west's way of life. I must tell you before we carry on, however, that no one so far has ever left Fourteen. Every single soldier we have recruited so far has either died in training or in combat somewhere around the world. If you are not willing to commit yourself to something that final, you may leave now." She paused and looked around the room. Not a single man stood up and made to leave.  
"Okay. Once you have been accepted into Fourteen, you are bound by contract. You cannot leave us until twenty-eight days after your fiftieth birthday. After this, you are closely monitored by either MI5 or MI6. If you so much as say a word to anyone about Fourteen, you will be made to 'disappear' shall we say." Natasha smirked and quickly brushed her hair back behind her ear. There was still complete silence around the room. Chris suspected that they, like him, were trying to get to terms with what they were hearing.  
"The same goes for anyone who fails the selection course. Once you've passed selection, however, you will be moved into the base. As you can imagine, we are never allowed to disclose the whereabouts of our base to anyone, including you. Within the base is a community, consisting of virtually everyone who works for us. We have our own hospital, supermarket, pub, take-away, and even our own travel agency. The whole community has around two thousand people within it, of which only sixty of these are actual soldiers. A further thirty-five are officers, intelligence analysts, and other administrative workers. After these, there are a team of trained surgeons, doctors, pharmacists and nurses. Then, there are the workers from the pub, supermarket, take-away and travel agency. Anyone else is a member of the families of all of the aforementioned people." Once again there was a brief pause, while Natasha took a few breaths, and the men assembled in the room absorbed the information she was giving.  
"Within Fourteen, the structure is very different from the regular army, and even the SAS. You are placed into one of our ten six-man fighting units. Each unit has a unit commander, who is selected during our selection program if he shows the qualities required. Everyone else is considered of equal rank below this commander. During your time in Fourteen, you will find that the other members of your unit will become like your family. These are the people that you must place your utmost trust into. You will learn to read the tone of their voices, the look in their eyes, and anything else that shows what they are thinking and feeling. Some of you may already know these things about someone else in this room." She looked briefly at Chris and Taz, and then at Paddy and John.  
"Right, now let's look at the selection process in a bit more detail. The first three weeks are made up of warm-up exercises in preparation for a weeklong test made up of two ten mile tabs and a three day escape and evasion exercise. These first four weeks are really just a chance for most of you to get back into the swing of things after so long out of training. Following this is a two-week refresher course on HALO parachute jumping, fast roping and HCI, or Helicopter Capsule Insertion techniques. After this, you will spend another two weeks on marksmanship, including shooting from the back of moving vehicles, from helicopters and also from Gemini Inflatables. After this, you will spend two months learning advanced hostage rescue techniques, covert intelligence gathering methods and wet and dry demolitions. Upon finishing this, you will be sent to Belize for six weeks to learn jungle warfare methods and basic survival skills such as woodcraft. When you return, there is one week's leave for you to relax and prepare for the final test. This is a five-day exercise where you are split into groups of six, and have to successfully infiltrate a mock-up base occupied by some of our best soldiers. The last two days of selection then consist of a routine interrogation exercise. That is merely a formality to check that you still remember your training. Overall, that's twenty-three weeks of selection exercises. Not that difficult for most of you." Natasha smiled sweetly at the men assembled in the briefing room. Shit, thought Chris grimly, I bet she'd eat us all alive if she had the chance.  
"Right," she said, "I think that's enough information for you all now. If you follow me, I'll take you out to the coach so we can get to the base before ten o'clock. You start training tomorrow." There was a rise in the noise level as everyone began talking at once.  
"Fuckin' Hell," breathed Chris, looking at Taz.  
"Didn't see this advertised in the Times Job section mate," replied Taz. They both stood up and join the other men in trying to get out of the room. Natasha was waiting patiently by the door, and as soon as everyone had left the room, she pulled the door closed and set off at speed down the corridors. They went in a different direction this time, and after climbing several flights of stairs, and walking even more long corridors, Chris, Natasha, Taz and the others emerged in an underground car park. There was an unmarked coach waiting for them, with the windows painted over and an armed guard by the door. The guard ushered them onto the coach quickly, and Taz and Chris went straight to the back, where they were soon joined by Paddy and John, who were both looking just as bemused as the rest of the men on the coach. Soon, everyone was on the coach, and Natasha climbed in and sat on the front seat with the armed guard. The door slammed shut and the coach began to move. Chris noticed that you couldn't even see out of the windows. Not only that, but the driver's part of the coach was partitioned off so they couldn't even see out of the front window.  
"Fuck me, they're a bit security conscious aren't they?" he muttered quietly to Taz. They both sat in silence as the coach drove off in silence to wherever it was going. After a long period of silence, Taz spoke up.  
"Watcha been doing with yourself then mate? I was expecting at least a phone call from me best mate," Taz grinned as he said this, but Chris could detect a hint of bitterness in the comment.  
"I'm sure you heard most of the story being passed around the Sergeants mess after I left anyways, didn't you?"  
"Well, I heard your wife and kid left you, but that's it." Chris didn't reply to this. He just sat in silence, thinking sadly of the mess he'd made of his life. Taz, sensing the trouble Chris was having with talking about that subject, quickly apologised.  
"Don't worry mate," replied Chris, "Maybe this is a turning point eh?" Both of them smiled weakly. Next to them, Paddy was in a deep sleep. His head had rolled forwards onto his chest, and he was snoring loudly. John, who up until now had been all but completely silent, turned to Chris and Taz.  
"He was always a lazy bastard in the Regiment," he said, his thick Glaswegian accent now hoarse and crackly.  
  
Finally, after what seemed like an age, the coach rolled to a stop. The door opened, and a cold blast of air rushed into the hot, sweaty smelling coach. A man in a set of '95 DPMs and a dark Green Beret stepped into the coach.  
"Right," he said briskly, "In a moment we will be entering the base compound. The duty officer in charge there will lead you into the Quartermasters store, where you will be issued with your kit. You will then be showed to your dormitory, where you will stow your kit in your designated locker. After this, Colonel Farum here (he pointed to Natasha) will lead you into the canteen for some food. Then you will be escorted back to the dormitory. I recommend you get a good nights sleep, as we have to be up at 0600. In other words, no wanking all night; not only will you keep the others awake, but it makes a fucking horrible smell in there." The men in the coach laughed and the officer grinned. When everyone had stopped laughing, he climbed out of the coach, and the door closed again. The coach began moving again, and after a few more minutes, it came to a halt. The driver killed the engine and the door opened again. An officer climbed into the coach, wearing the same combat '95s and dark Green Beret. As he turned around, Chris noticed with considerable shock that it was Cockney from the Philippines operation.  
"Alright wank stains, get your arses up and out of this coach. Line up outside in single file and wait for me to lead you into the multi-coloured swap shop." Everyone stood up and filed out of the coach, some stretching their various limbs along the way, and many of them yawning widely. Once outside, Chris lined up along with everyone else, noting the icy chill in the air. He presumed that they were somewhere in the north of the country, perhaps on one of the many deserted moors there were.  
"Everyone out?" asked Cockney, "Right shit-bags, follow me." He walked quickly into the nearest building, stopping at the heavy metal entrance door to swipe his ID card through the slot and type in an access code. The door opened automatically with a loud buzz and inside, Chris's eyes were treated to the sight of a brightly lit warehouse. As he walked past the many rows of shelves, following the others, he saw everything from toothbrushes and boil-in-the-bag meals, to Milan Anti-Tank Missiles, and five Barrett M82 .50 calibre sniper rifles. Chris had only ever seen one of these rifles (when fighting against the IRA for the Regiment in the mid 90s), and they totally fascinated him. He'd fired the captured IRA one once on the range at Hereford, and couldn't fire a rifle for three weeks because it had bruised his unprotected shoulders so badly.  
At the end of the warehouse was a long desk, manned by a rough looking man with a shaved head and a large bushy ginger moustache.  
"These the new maggots?" he asked, revealing that he had several missing teeth as he spoke.  
"Yeah," replied Cockney, "You runnin' another bet this year?"  
"Yeah, starts tomorrow morning in the scoff house. Minimum bet is fifty quid."  
"Alright. Okay shit heads, get your gear from Mickey here and go stand over by that wall." The line began to move forward as the new recruits were given their kit and sent over by the wall. Chris was the last in the line and had to wait a few minutes before Mickey handed him a Bergen and a black Adidas sports bag. Chris hauled the heavy kit over to the wall, and was just about to dump it on the floor when Cockney spoke again.  
"Right wank stains, follow me to the maggot room. I will assign you a bed and locker when we get there. Store your kit in the locker, and then stand to attention by your bunk." He walked back through the warehouse towards the door they had come in by, stopping briefly to swipe his card through the slot and type in the access code. Once outside, they were led through the darkness to a wooden hut raised about a metre above the ground on stilts. He opened the door to the hut, which had no locks or swipe card slots on it at all, and walked inside.  
"Right shit heads," he said as they all lined up behind him, "When I read out your name, go to the locker labelled with the number I give you and then stand by the bed with the same number on it. He began reading out names and the line became smaller as each man went off to store his kit away and stand by his bed. Eventually, Cockney shouted:  
"Henderson, twenty-six. Corless, twenty-seven. O'Brien, twenty-eight. Kennedy, twenty-nine." Chris, Taz, Paddy and John all walked off to their lockers, stored their kit in them, and then stood to attention by their beds.  
"Right, time for some scoff I think. Follow me shit heads," leered Cockney, setting off again out of the wooden hut and into the darkness. Once again, they were led to another big building with a heavy metal door and the standard swipe card and keypad security system. Inside was a large canteen, completely empty except for two formidable looking women at the serving counter.  
"All right lads?" one of them asked in a Welsh accent.  
"Right shit heads," said Cockney, "Line up, get your grub and eat it quick 'cause were going in ten minutes." There was a sudden rush as everyone lined up to get their food. When Chris reached the two women, one handed him an open can of baked beans, and the other gave him two slices of bread, with a smile and an "Enjoy!".  
Chris sat down with Paddy, John and Taz and ate his food as quickly as he could. He suddenly realised how hungry he was. This was the first he'd eaten since that fry-up in the morning. Shit, he thought, it was only this morning I was going to betray all the Regiment's secrets. He was just scooping the last few beans from the bottom of the tin with his second piece of bread when Cockney shouted:  
"Stand to and move out shit heads!" Chris quickly shoved the bread into his mouth and joined the rush to get out of the door. They were led into the wooden hut again, and two minutes later, the lights were switched off. Chris threw himself onto the army bed without taking his clothes off. He thought about all that had happened that day, and secretly promised himself that this would be a new start for him. No more fucking up, he said quietly to himself.  
  
It felt like his eyes had hardly closed when he was woken with a start by Cockneys yells of:  
"Wake up wank stains! It's oh six hundred, and it's time to party! Get your lazy arses up and out of bed. I want you all by your bunks and standing to attention in three minutes. Combat ninety-fives on. Bring your Bergens with their kit in them out of you locker and have them placed at your feet." Chris ran to his locker, yanked out his Bergen and ran back to his bunk, slamming the locker door closed as he did so. He then proceeded to rip his clothes off and replace them with a set of DPMs. Not knowing where to put his new clothes from the previous day, Chris hastily shoved them in the large bin by the door. He ran back to his bunk, zipped up his Bergen and stood to attention. Seconds later, Cockney walked in looking gleeful.  
"Well done shit faces, you've still remembered the discipline. Let's see how fit you fat fuckers are after so long out of training. Follow me to the parade ground, and place your Bergens on the floor in front of you when we get there." The new recruits were marched out onto a parade ground. The weather was drizzly and grey, with some scary looking clouds looming over the horizon. Cockney stood in front of them, silent for a few minutes as though thinking of what to say. Finally, he spoke up.  
"First of all, my name is Sergeant-Major Nick Foster. I've been in Fourteen for about six years now. I'm gonna be your training officer for your selection. This aint like the green army, so you lot can call me Nick. I don't expect any of that saluting a senior officer shit either. If I bollock you for doin' something wrong, take it like a man and learn from your mistakes. Well, I think that's all for now. Empty your Bergens and shove all the shit from them into one of the bin liners I'm gonna give you in a minute. When you've filled up the bin bag, go back to the dorm and stick it in your locker. Move out!" Chris opened his Bergen and emptied the contents on the floor, checking the many pouches attached to the Bergen for items he may have missed. When Nick handed him a bin liner, he shoved everything that was on the floor into it and tied the bag at the top. He then ran into the dormitory, stowed his kit in his locker and ran back to the parade ground. He sat down on the tarmac and waited for everyone else to return to the parade ground. When everyone was back, Nick made everyone stand up and form a line.  
"Right, you lot are going to line up by that pile of breezeblocks over there. Bring your Bergens, and when you reach the breezeblocks, I'm gonna fill your Bergen with six of the bastards. Do your Bergen up and stand back over here, with your Bergen placed at your feet." Once again, everyone lined up and did what they were told. Chris got the feeling that this was going to be a very repetitive selection course.  
What proceeded was a three-mile hike across the moorlands around the base. The air was damp with drizzly rain and there was thick fog surrounding Chris. Nevertheless, he kept pace with Nick, although the last mile or so was difficult. Most of the soldiers there didn't complain once, instead singing to themselves or joking with their friends. They stuck within the groups of their old units. The Americans were at the back singing loud marching songs. In front were two Germans from GSG-9, who marched silently, not complaining or even talking. Then came the Canadians from JTF-2 and the Australians from their own SASR. These two small groups mingled and told war stories. The people in the front were the British. These were the people who walked in groups of two or three, talking amongst themselves about old times or joining in with the singing from the Americans. Nick would run between the groups, verbally abusing the soldiers and yelling at them to give up. There was one tense moment as he was abusing an American called Marvin from the Navy SEALs. Marvin had spent most of the hike whining loudly and claiming that the "limeys" were crazy. Nick jogged up to him and began abusing him for everything under the sun. Chris turned round and watched out of the corner of his eye.  
"Come on you fat Yankee fucker!" he yelled, "You fuckin' lazy arsed nook. Your mum must be so disappointed in you. Do you fuckin' realise how many men's cocks she had to suck before she got preggers with you? Don't waste it fat arse!" Marvin, who had turned white with anger and looked as though he was about to smash Nick's face in, stood silent for a second (by now the rest of the group had stopped to see what would happen). After a few tense seconds, he grinned and burst out laughing.  
"You fuckin' limeys are crazy bastards you know that??" he asked. Nick bust out laughing as well, slapped Marvin on the back and turned to the others.  
"Come on you shitheads, get moving'! I aint got all fuckin' day!"  
At the end of the hike, the recruits were led into the canteen where the two women served them full English breakfasts and large 1-pint mugs of tea. As Chris sat down to eat his food, he took a look around the hall. Nick had gone to sit with the Quartermaster from the previous night, along with some other grizzly looking men. It appeared the fashion in the regiment was to have a few days of stubble on the face, a shaved head and a big Mexican style moustache. As he compressed the eggs bacon and sausage between his two fried slices and made a sandwich, Chris noticed that Nick and the other men were pointing to different recruits and Nick was writing in a small notebook.  
"No prizes for guessing what they're doing," Taz said to Chris.  
"Well whoever thinks I'm going to quit has just lot a lot of money eh Taz?" replied Chris.  
"Too right mate, no American cunt is gonna beat me into Fourteen!" 


End file.
